


The Lovely Cup

by shadowfire125



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowfire125/pseuds/shadowfire125
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd said it was just a cup. But it's not. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lovely Cup

"It's just a cup," he'd said.

Just a cup.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd repeated that phrase to himself, like a mantra. A reminder. Reminding himself of what, he wasn't entirely sure. Of its insignificance, maybe. That it shouldn't mean so much, that he was being foolish.

_Just a cup._

But still he used it, disregarding all other cups. Belle had noticed his preference, and, though rather baffled, always served his tea in it. Even though it was just a cup, he always found himself absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the chip as he mulled over the choice of tea for the day (Belle liked to surprise him – sometimes it ended well).

_Just. A. Cup._

In the weeks since Belle had arrived in his castle, he had realized that there was a mystery at hand, a puzzle to be solved.

That puzzle was her, a maze, a jigsaw, and the longer she stayed the more complex the puzzle grew. He was constantly discovering new layers and twists, like the way she wrinkled her nose and the gleam in her eye and the secret smile in the corner of her lips. The biggest piece of the puzzle, however, the piece that had him completely stumped, was that _gods damned cup_. 

He tightened his grip on the 'just a' cup, accidentally pressing his thumb too hard on the jagged edge. When he jerked in surprise as it broke his skin, he managed to splash hot tea on himself, and swore loudly.

Belle glanced up from where she sat at the table, stitching shut a torn seam in one of his shirts. "Serves you right," she remarked. "I don't understand why you insist on using the silly thing, you were bound to nick yourself eventually."

He made a noise of contempt and flicked his wrist. The tea was restored to the cup, and his thumb was good as new. Staring pointedly at her, he took a deliberately long sip, and she rolled her eyes at him. He made a face back at her and returned to staring out the window.

"What did you expect, when you came here?" he asked suddenly, surprising her as well as himself.

"Well," she said, applying a final stitch and snipping the thread, "I expected you to be a lot less childish."

He giggled, and she let out an amused huff.

Turning back to her, he saw her smiling and relished it. "It was a serious question, dearie."

"It was a serious answer." When he arched an eyebrow at her, she sighed and began to pack up her sewing kit. "I don't know, honestly. But I don't think it was this."

His heart was pounding in his ears and he wished he could explain why. Hesitantly, he asked, "And what is… this?"

Her lips quirked up, and she regarded him curiously. "I don't think I know that, either." She stood, draping his repaired shirt over her arm. "I've got to go finish the laundry – see you for supper." With that, she exited the room in a swish of blue skirt and a toss of auburn curls.

He was left standing at the sunlit window, feeling completely flummoxed.

Then he looked down at the cup, watched the light play off the deep brown drink and the delicate golden rim, and the pieces fell into place. Not all of them, but enough for him to suddenly feel the need to sit.

She was precious to him. That much was clear from the way his throat had closed and he had waited breathless for her to answer that last question, waited for her to validate him in some way. And it was still intangible, still unreal – she was so far out of reach, a beautiful, ethereal being beyond his touch. And this cup, this stupid, _stupid_ cup, was his link to her. It was real, he could feel it beneath his fingers, the warm china smooth but for that one spot. Proof that she was in his life. Proof that she had changed something. It was an idea, a wonderful, idiotic idea made solid and imperfect.

The tea rippled as his hands shook.

Just a cup.

But, gods, was it lovely.


End file.
